A piece of our hearts (or, why some days REALLY suck, Part 2*)

Rex
Arrived: Some time in 1998
Departed: April 10, 2008, approx. 1:00 PM CDT

" It came to me that every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are."
~ Unknown (sometimes attributed to Cheryl Zuccaro)

Warning to those who were expecting something snarky: Unfortunately, this is another sappy and possibly boring dog post. If you don't like dog stories, stay away from this post! I WILL get back to snarky mode before too long. I promise.

Late one spring night in 1999, a sprightly young Rottweiler/Doberman/black Lab mix was making his way down the middle of a suburban road, dragging a chain. He was accompanied by another dog – a small Collie or a Sheltie, though the latter was keeping to the side of the road. Where the pair had come from, and where they thought they were going, was anyone's guess. As luck would have it, they were spotted by a dedicated rescuer of homeless canines, who put some food down to lure them closer. The Sheltie took off, but the Rott mix took the bait, and the rescuer grabbed his chain.

She took him home and did the usual thing that responsible animal rescuers do – put up signs all over the place, called the area shelters, tried her best to help the stranger find his way back home. There was no response, so the handsome young guy became yet another of her foster "children." He was checked out by a vet, given the requisite shots, neutered, and then duly entered into the adoption program sponsored by the organization with which the rescuer was involved – Houston's Homeless Pet Placement League. And he was given the working name of "Rex" – not a terribly original moniker, but it suited him well.

Rex was, to put it mildly, a lively sort. His benefactor speculated that the reason he was on a chain was that he had grown out of the small, cute puppy stage, and no one had taken the time to train him or give him much attention. He was obviously very hungry for attention from humans and other dogs. In the report prepared for Rex's adoption files, his rescuer wrote, "He...runs up and down the fence line with the neighbors' dogs and whines because he wants to be with them."

Ron and I were those neighbors, and our dogs seemed to want to be with Rex as much as he wanted to be with them. In September of 1999, the dogs' wishes were granted when we officially adopted Rex, after keeping him at our place on a "trial" basis for a few weeks.

It was, for us, the perfect time to add another dog to our clan. The previous spring, at almost exactly the same time Rex had been entered into the HPPL adoption program, we had said goodbye to Ron's dog Siva, an ancient, wise, and infinitely loving blue heeler-dingo mix. She had advanced cancer and Ron had to make the difficult decision to have the vet end her suffering. Siva's departure left a huge empty space in our household, but we had no particular plans to acquire another dog.

And then along came Rex, and we both fell in love with the big lug, who despite his formidable appearance was just an overgrown baby. Ron was also concerned that someone else might adopt Rex and try to turn him into some macho killing machine, with tragic consequences. We couldn't let that happen. So we paid the modest adoption fee and he became officially ours, and vice versa.

The adoption report stated that Rex got along with other dogs but not with cats. The latter proved not to be true, which was a good thing, since we had four cats at the time. (It helped that they were all quite used to dogs.) Rex quickly learned the art of interacting with cats without scaring the living daylights out of them. Sometimes he got a little overly enthusiastic when nosing their butts, but he did rapidly learn the one lesson every dog should know: If you go too far when messing with a cat, it's going to turn into a fight – and the cat always wins.

It was obvious from the beginning that Rex was Ron's dog, but it was equally obvious that Rex loved me too, and in fact was quite taken with women in general. Even more than he loved women, he loved human crotches. To get both a woman and a crotch in one package was a true delight for him. Ron always enjoyed telling the story of the time his best friend's wife came over to our house for a visit. She is a petite woman, and she was wearing a long skirt that day. Rex came up to her to nose her crotch, saw that there was a skirt in the way, pushed his nose up under her skirt, and actually lifted her up off the ground. She was taken by surprise but laughed and was a good sport about it overall, though she gently but firmly disentangled herself from the situation.

Ron jokingly said to her, "Hey, c'mon, it took me a long time to train him to do that!" (Notwithstanding Ron's facetious remark we did continually attempt, with limited success, to discourage Rex's crotch obsession, and were forever grateful that he was never a leg humper.)

Besides being a notorious crotch dog, Rex became infamous for other traits, most notably his proficiency at passing gas – which in his case was not only an olfactory phenomenon, but generally an auditory one as well. It became a running joke in our household, and in later years, our boy even had a recurring cameo role on this blog as Rex The Farting Dog (a nod to Walter The Farting Dog).

He was, of course, much more than those quirky traits and comical bodily functions. He was loyal and affectionate and protective to a fault, and he made it very clear that we belonged to him as much as the other way around. The usual way he expressed his ownership of us was by plopping one of his huge hands on top of our hand, or on our leg, or on any part that happened to be convenient. On most mornings, Ron was awakened – quite suddenly, and generally a bit earlier than he would have liked – by Rex's insistent paw landing squarely on his chest.

In the time he was with us, Rex presided over a succession of other dogs and cats. A couple of days before Christmas of 2000, we lost another dog: Snapper, the elderly whippet that Ron had inherited from his late mother. Snapper and Rex had been buds, and usually slept nestled together next to Ron's side of the bed. It seemed clear that Rex missed him, and not just as a sleep buddy. Our other three dogs were miniature dachshunds, and they were just a bit too small to be playmates for him, though they got along well with him and he was always very gentle with them.

And then the following spring, a smart, pretty, and supremely self-confident young hound-terrier mix, Layla, joined our household. Her former owner had moved to an apartment where he couldn't have dogs, and she needed a new home. Layla and Rex got along famously, and when she grew old enough to come into heat, she wiggled her little butt in Rex's direction... and amazingly, they mated. Since Rex had been neutered in May of 1999, we were of course a bit surprised and not a little concerned, but our vet assured us that while rare, such a thing was by no means impossible. "Don't worry, he's firing blanks," the vet said. Thus it was that Rex and Layla were both able to enjoy a vigorous sex life for several years, without contributing to the pet overpopulation problem. How many dogs can make that claim?

More seasons passed, and we acquired another "rescue" puppy: a feral blue heeler-Aussie shepherd mix we named Kali (keeping in the same pantheon as Siva, as Kali bore a strong resemblance to Siva when the latter was a puppy). Kali turned out to be nothing like Siva. She was, and is, a handful, but she brought a youthful energy to our household. And this was a good thing, for as some of our other animals aged the inevitable began to happen. Natasha, the oldest of the dachshunds, died in November of 2003, and her mate Nicholas followed in January of 2004. The two oldest cats, Bruce and Sabrina, left us in January and February of 2005, respectively. In October of 2005 a new kitten, Sabu, came to live with us, and after that we thought we were back on an even keel, animal-wise. Then Nicky and Natasha's daughter, Noelle, died rather unexpectedly last October. Surely, we thought, after losing seven elderly animals within a few years, we were due for an extended break from those wrenching goodbyes.

We were wrong.

In the past few months Rex had slowed down considerably. A bit of slowing down isn't unusual for a dog that's nearly ten years old, particularly a larger breed, for they age more rapidly than smaller dogs. But he was displaying some symptoms that had us concerned, including weight loss and a general lack of energy. We took him to the vet shortly before our move to the ranch in February, and the vet checked him out thoroughly. He ruled out anything serious such as diabetes, heart failure, or kidney failure. He did tell us that Rex's kidneys weren't operating at top efficiency but it wasn't anything to be overly concerned about at that point. Even the weight loss wasn't extreme, and in fact was advantageous given the fact that Rex had a bit of arthritis. The vet recommended a minor change in diet and advised us to keep a fairly close eye on him. We were immensely relieved.

We were even more relieved in the weeks to follow, for Rex improved and seemed to thrive. He began to gain some of his weight back and was looking better than he had in quite a while. He loved our new house in the country, and spent more time outdoors than he'd ever wanted to spend at the other place. He seemed completely happy with his new role as a country dog. There were so many novel sights and sounds to engage him, and new animals to befriend (although he did try to bite one of the neighbor's horses his first morning here. The horse – and Ron – quickly set him straight.).

Then just a couple of weeks ago, the old symptoms seemed to return, along with some alarming new ones: swelling in his hind legs and the lymph nodes in his neck. He had begun losing weight again and he became much less energetic. At first we thought the problem might be ehrlichiosis, a tick-borne disease that if caught in time can be cured with tetracycline or a derivative. But it turned out to be lymphatic cancer, and it turned out that Rex was suffering greatly. A couple of nights ago it became very apparent that he was in terrible pain, and he was so weak he could no longer get up.

We took turns keeping vigil by his side on that last long and mostly sleepless night – Rex made it obvious that he did not want to be alone – and when morning came we knew what we had to do. Rex was hurting too badly for us to even try to get him into the van, but Ron found a kindly country vet, who drove out to the ranch house in pouring rain, bearing his merciful needle. Rex went quickly and peacefully, with Ron and me holding him, and when it was over we kissed him goodbye and the vet took him away.

Afterwards there didn't seem to be much to do. There was work, of course, as there always is, but we didn't have quite what it took to deal with that. The house, as big as it is, didn't seem large enough to hold our grief, so we wandered out onto our covered porch for a while. The rain had stopped by then, and there was no sound except for the mourning doves in the trees.

So here we are now with two dogs and three cats and, inevitably, that very large empty space with which we have become all too familiar.** Layla has moved to the place of honor next to Ron's side of the bed. Kali sleeps in her crate, as she has since we've had her, because that's where she feels most secure. The cats curl up in various corners in "their" part of the house, as placid as usual, but I am pretty sure they feel the empty space too. Or maybe I am just projecting.

We've often said that Rex was not running away from home that night our neighbor found him dragging his chain. He was running to his home. Whether it was fate or divine intervention or just dumb luck that brought him to the point where he would end up in the yard next door to ours, I couldn't begin to say. I do know we owe an immense debt of gratitude to our friend and former neighbor, Jeannice, as well as to the HPPL. What matters most is that Rex was a part of our lives for nearly nine years.

Which, of course, wasn't nearly long enough.

* Here's Part 1.
** Note to well-meaning friends: The presence of a new empty space in our household does NOT mean we are in the market for another dog (or cat) at this point. We are not. We are concentrating on loving and caring for the five animals we still have.

"All the dog she needs to be"

In their dying as much as in their living, pets can enrich our lives and teach us much about our own nature. The succession of pets in a pet owner’s life seems tragic, but it need not be…the repetition of birth, life and death in our pets during our lives can help us to understand better the constancy of our existence, the constancy of the cycles of life. Just as the seasons change and a spring will never be the same, there will always be another [pet]. So it is with life. We can learn and accept the constancy of nature through the succession of animals. They can also give us a symbolic image of natural perfection…~ Bruce Fogle, "Bereavement," from Pets And Their People (out-of-print, but still available)

The Dachshund's affectionate
He wants to wed with you:
Lie down to sleep,
And he's in bed with you.
Sit in a chair,
He's there.
Depart,
You break his heart.
~ E.B. White

Warning: If you’re no fan of sappy dog stories (especially sappy dog stories that, like the average dachshund, are a little too loooong) – or if you don’t like it when I veer a bit off-topic on this blog – skip this post, and please accept my apologies. I’ll be back to snarky in no time…just not today. And if you are visiting this blog for the first time, please note that this post is not representative of my regular subject matter. I just don't want you to to be disappointed if you come back expecting a dog blog and step instead into a snark mine.
~CC
The routine is nearly always the same. When supper is finished we pile into the living room, Ron and I and our passel of dogs, joining the cats in "their" part of the house to watch TV and be cat furniture. "Be nice to my cats!" Ron always warns – to no avail – as the dogs stampede into the room, shoving their noses up as many cat butts as they can get away with before being corralled by Ron or slapped by an indignant feline.

The one dog to whom Ron rarely had to issue his warning was our miniature dachshund Noelle, who was far less interested in cat harassment than in jumping up and settling into her spot on Ron’s recliner. "Make a hole, Noelle!" Ron would always say when he found her taking up a little too much real estate on his chair, as was her habit. Sometimes he would get to the chair before she did, and, of course, he would always "make a hole" for her – except for those times when she had taken a quick detour for a snack from the cats’ litter boxes. Ron refuses to share his intimate chair space with coprophagiacs; man of refinement that he is, there is something about cat-poo breath that he finds off-putting. I confess I was always more indulgent, scooping Noelle up to hang with me on the couch after her rejection by her dad. But I was obviously second choice.

For although Noelle was originally "my" dog, by virtue of being the offspring of the dogs I’d brought to our household, it was apparent that she was Daddy’s girl. And she much preferred snuggling up with Ron on his chair, snoozing through countless movies and episodes of CSI or Cold Case or Boston Legal, to lying next to me. Ron was clearly the alpha dog, and her protector.

* * * * *

Once upon a time, if you had suggested to me that I would be so completely in love with dachshunds, I would have laughed in your face. A wiener-dog lover? Not I, a woman who ran with the wolves – literally, and years before that book came out. Having shared my home at various times with German Shepherds, a full-blooded timber wolf, and a couple of different wolf hybrids, I was a big fan of big dogs; little dogs, in my mind, were barely worthy of the title of "dog."

And dachshunds? Ridiculous dogs, really: fashioned in their present form by Teutonic breeders in a bygone century, their mission being to create a master race of fierce little hounds foolhardy enough to go after badgers and other ground-dwelling creatures. Teckels, as the Germans sometimes call them, were made-to-order for burrowing into tight spaces but, as is nearly always the case when humans tinker with the genetic material of other species, there was little regard for the well-being of the product of all that careful breeding. As a result of their ludicrously long backs and squatty little legs, the average dachshund is a spinal disaster waiting to happen. Given their length, I’ve always thought they would have fared so much better with an extra pair of legs in the middle. So much for German engineering.

It was my ex-husband Roger, a wonderful guy with whom I’m still friends, who got me into dachshundry. He’d had them years before and insisted they were delightful dogs. At that time we had two cats and a Husky-wolf hybrid named Xen, but there was room in our household and our lives for another animal or two. Roger finally sold me on wiener dogs, and our first one, a lovely long-haired chocolate-and-tan female named Natasha, was soon joined by a short-haired red male we called Nicholas. Needless to say, I was infatuated from the beginning, and when Nicky and Tasha decided it was time to start a family, or nature decided it for them, Roger and I didn’t stand in their way. I realize it may have been irresponsible to let them breed, and in light of the pet overpopulation problem, "backyard breeding" is generally not recommended. But then again, if Tasha and Nicky hadn't bred, there would have been no Noelle. Over the next few years our little couple produced four litters (curiously enough, every one of the pups was short-haired and mostly red-headed like their dad). Roger and I kept Cody, a boy from their first litter, and the rest went to other good homes.

Noelle was the last of the line, her name inspired by the fact that she was born one week before Christmas 1993. The birth took place at around ten o’clock at night in an animal emergency clinic, as Tasha was having difficulties in labor. The first pup out the chute was a little boy; Noelle was next, but took her time coming out. Puppies come gift-wrapped in individual birth sacs, and it was Noelle’s sac that came out first, considerably before she made her appearance. All we saw at first was a bubble, which rapidly grew almost alarmingly large – but no puppy. We were beginning to wonder if a pup was even there. The vet, Roger, and I were all hovering closely over Tasha, and when it became clear that the bubble was going to burst, the vet and I got out of the way. Roger didn’t, and he soon got splattered. This messy prologue was immediately followed by the emergence of the tiniest girl pup I’d ever seen, and one of the sweetest Christmas gifts I’ve ever received.

At this point we thought Tasha’s work was done – she always had very small litters – but then the vet said one more was coming. Another little girl slipped into the world soon after, but she was finished before she’d even begun: motionless, and unresponsive to the vet’s earnest efforts to revive her. So Noelle really was Tasha’s last-born – a mere mite of a dog. (Somewhere in my archives is a Polaroid of her and her brother taken at the age of one day or so, the two of them nestled together in Roger’s hand.)

At the time of Noelle’s birth, Roger and I were completing the process of splitting up. It was an amicable split, with no custody battles over the animals. The Husky-wolf mix Xen had died a couple of years previously, and I got custody of Nicky, Tasha, and their new brood, leaving Roger with Nicky and Tasha's adult son Cody, as well as one of the cats (we had three by then), and the promise of the new male pup when he came of age. When the puppies were old enough for new homes I found that I couldn’t bear to part with Noelle, though we already had a house full with Nicholas and Natasha, my two cats Bruce and Sabrina, and Ron’s two dogs Siva and Snapper. But Ron was kind enough to let me keep Noelle; what was one more tiny dog, after all? As promised, her brother went to Roger, who named him Ziggy and gave him a very happy life. In the years to follow, two more cats joined our household.

As she grew up it was apparent that Noelle, though "ours," was, in her mind, Ron’s. He called her his "little bit of dog." "Not much dog at all!" I’d sometimes say of her, and he would reply, "But she’s all the dog she needs to be."

And she was. There’s no doubt she capitalized on her cuteness and small size, exploiting our natural desire to baby her. She was good at getting her own way, and not terribly responsive to commands. Ron often teased her about not being the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but she was by no means dumb. That she didn’t take to "training" was a combination of my own negligence in that area and the natural stubbornness and "selective hearing" for which dachshunds are quite well known. But Noelle was an expert in doing what she needed to survive. Besides the cuteness-exploitation angle, she had the fundamentals down pat. She knew, as most little dogs do, how to stay out of the way of the big dogs, except when the hormonal fires of estrus had burned away her normal caution, compelling her to flirt shamelessly with our big dog Rex, who outweighed her by more than 120 pounds. She would sometimes position herself underneath him, eagerly "flagging" him with her tail, and he, neutered but no stranger to sex, would oblige her with a manly display of "air-humping."

She did recognize certain commands. For example, she knew and obeyed "Get out of the kitchen." It was the concept of "Stay out of the kitchen" that she had so much trouble with.

Like most spoiled dogs she was a consummate beggar, and I am sorry to say I didn’t exactly discourage this. I eat lots of yogurt, and in the last couple of years it became my habit to offer Noelle the carton when I was finished. (I know, I know; dogs aren’t supposed to have dairy products or sugar. But I always rationalized that the amount of both was negligible; by the time I was done there was never more than a dachshund-sized lick’s-worth of yogurt, if that much.) Noelle would grab the carton in her mouth, trot over to her little dog bed under Ron’s credenza in the front office, and settle in with her treasure. Later one of the other dogs would snatch it, lick out the last remaining yogurt molecules, chew on the carton a bit, and then take it outside to position it carefully in the back yard, as if styling an ad for Yoplait. (And a fine ad it might have made, especially with all of those tooth marks: "Yoplait. It is so good, it's you’ll even want to eat the carton good!") It got to the point where I would no sooner get a carton of yogurt out of the refrigerator than Noelle would be dancing around my feet, whimpering for her yogurt fix. "Wait your turn, Noelle," I’d always say, and she would, but not quietly.

Noelle was more fortunate than many dachshunds, as she wasn’t plagued with the back problems for which the breed is notorious. Her own father, Nicholas, had very bad back problems, particularly in his later years. And her brothers Cody and Ziggy, Roger told us, had numerous problems, some of which required expensive surgery. Not so Noelle. Even as she grew older, morphing from a solid red hound into a white-and-red one, she still got around very well. We did try to control her jumping up and down off of furniture, because that’s very bad for doxie backs, but she often did it before we could stop her.

She also never got grossly obese, the way so many dachshunds do, some of them looking like overstuffed sausage casings. In fact for the last six months or so of her life she was a bit underweight. In retrospect, that might have been a sign of something amiss, but I didn’t snap to it. She seemed in pretty good health overall, still whimpering for yogurt every day, and dancing and singing for her supper every night – up until her last night on earth.

And even on that final night (which at the time I had no clue would be her last one), she ate her supper as usual. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. After supper, however, she didn’t join us in the living room for our nightly session of TV watching and cat-bonding. Neither Ron nor I thought much about it, because from time to time one or the other of the dogs wouldn’t go in with the rest of us. Later, upon realizing that he or she was…horrors…alone in the front office while the rest of the pack was in the other room, the prodigal canine would bark insistently to be let in. "When Noelle hollers, I’ll let her in," Ron said.

But not a peep came out of her, so we figured she was just snoozing and didn’t want to be disturbed. When we came out of the living room to let the dogs outside once more before bedtime, however, I saw that she was lying on her bed with half of her body hanging off, as if she were too weak to make it all the way onto the bed. Alarmed, I picked her up, but even though she seemed a little weak she was otherwise normally responsive. Ron said, "She’s been a bit out of sorts today." Ah, yes. It was just one of those "spells." So I concentrated hard on trying not to worry, though we decided that if she wasn’t better by the next day we’d take her to the vet.

In retrospect I see that Ron was trying to shield me from the reality of what was happening, but it really wasn’t necessary. I knew. I’d seen the death of pets before, was all too familiar with the process. In May 1999, we’d had to have Siva, Ron's dingo-Blue Heeler mix, put to rest because of advanced inoperable cancer. Snapper, our diabetic whippet, had passed on his own two days before Christmas 2000. More recently, I had cradled four of "my" pets – the ones I’d originally brought to our household – through their final hours: Tasha in November of 2003, Nicky in January 2004, my long-haired tuxedo cat Bruce in January 2005, and Sabrina, my short-haired blue cat, a little over a month later.

Noelle actually seemed to be a little better the next morning, but we still made a vet appointment. As the day wore on, though, she weakened, refusing food and water. It became increasingly apparent that spending hundreds, possibly thousands, of dollars on critical care would only buy her a short amount of time with us – and at what cost to her? She didn’t seem to be in pain, didn’t seem to be suffering at all, really. I wrapped her in an old green towel and held her on my lap, sitting on the floor in the front office, surrounded by the other dogs. At about 2:20 PM she struggled to her feet and, with one last gasp, threw up a little on me, getting me back, I suppose, for dodging that bubble on the night she was born. She lay back down, sighed deeply, and was gone.

I cleaned her and myself up, wrapped her back up in the green towel that had been her second skin for the last hours of her life, and then held her a while longer. We picked a spot in the back yard not too far from Noelle’s parents and Ron’s old dogs, Siva and Snapper. Ron borrowed a shovel from a neighbor, but the ground was too hard for digging, so he ran water on the space for a while, and said he’d let the ground soften overnight. Noelle would be sleeping in our house one more night. Removing her faded red collar, we carefully wrapped our girl in an impenetrable layer of plastic, a buffer against the time when death would begin making its presence known in more assertive ways. And then there was nothing to do but place the bundle on her little bed underneath Ron’s credenza, and await the morning.

A little later that night, when it was time to pile into the living room to watch TV, our two remaining girl dogs ran over to Noelle’s bed, as they normally do, to nudge her into following them. I had to guide them away and herd them into the other room. When Ron finally settled into his chair, he automatically made a space for Noelle. And the next day, a couple of hours after we had buried her, I finished up a carton of yogurt and caught myself looking around to see why Noelle wasn’t at my feet begging for a lick.

It will be a while before those habits fade away.

And so I find myself living, for the first time in nearly twenty years, in a home without a wiener dog. It doesn’t seem right somehow. Still, our house is far from bereft of canine companionship. We have wild-child Kali, a Blue Heeler/border collie mix who was literally captured as a feral pup, and as a puppy had been, in some ways, as destructive as the deity after whom she was named, at least where dog toys and a certain comforter I liked were concerned. We have our smart and pretty hound-terrier mix Layla, both a lady and a bitch in every sense of the word. And of course, there is Rex The Farting Dog, our 135-pound Rottweiler-Doberman-Black Lab mix. All three are rescue dogs. So there is no dearth of wagging tails and wet noses and barking and whining in this household (although in the interests of full disclosure, I must tell you that most of the whining has always come from me).

And then there are the three cats: Coca and Grace, who have been with us ten years, and Sabu, who came to us as a homeless kitten and adopted us a couple of years ago. Being exclusively indoor cats, they are obliged to interact with us at great length on a daily basis and are always affectionate, but they have been particularly sweet for the past couple of days, as if they sense we are grieving. Call us anthropomorphic, but that’s how it seems to us.

As a bonus, we also have a frequent delightful visitor: our "grand-dog" Haley, a pretty, smart, and well-trained Jack Russell terrier who belongs to Ron's daughter Sharon. Haley is keeping us company today, in fact.

So it might be said that we still have a full house. But it is obvious that someone is missing from our circle. It’s remarkable, really, how much empty space one little bit of wiener dog can leave behind.

..............................
Addendum (Sunday, October 7)
It occurred to me that there were some points I wanted to make with this post, beyond the obvious one that I miss the heck out of Noelle, that she is absolutely irreplaceable (as is every dog, cat, ferret, parrot, pig, horse, donkey, iguana, etc.), and that no matter how many animals share your home, it sucks to lose any one of them. But here are some other points.

1. I wouldn't trade my dachshund-infused years for anything, and at some time in the future I may yet welcome another wiener dog or two into my life (and/or perhaps some other "long little doggie" with stubby legs, like a Corgi). I have become somewhat obsessed with that odd configuration; more than that, I have definitely gotten over my big-dog fixation and have learned to appreciate portable pooches. But, depending upon the breed, purebred dogs very often do have more inherent health challenges than mutts. So if you're considering getting a dachshund or any other purebred dog, take that into consideration. Do your research. Here's a good beginning. And certainly research your breed, and know what sort of questions to ask the breeder. Which brings me to point number 2...

2. In the United States, millions of inmates are languishing on Death Row, most of them for nothing more than the "crime" of being born unwanted, or deemed somehow unworthy to share someone's home. I think you know which prisoners I'm talking about. When shopping for a four-legged companion, why not consider springing one or two innocents from the Big House? The life (or lives) you save will enrich your own immeasurably. You might also consider contacting one of the growing number of "no-kill" shelters, or a foster-pet organization such as Houston's Homeless Pet Placement League (HPPL). By the way, as I noted above, all of the dogs now living with Ron and me were rescues of some sort (as were the cats, for that matter). Rex The Farting Dog came to us via HPPL and our wonderful next-door neighbor, who has worked with that organization for many years. Rex has been an utter joy, despite the farting.

Even if you have your heart set on a purebred of some type, you may very well find one at your local shelter. There are also hundreds of specific breed-rescue groups. Google could be your best friend in helping you find your best friend.

And even if you're not in the market for a new friend, consider supporting an animal rescue organization such as the aforementioned HPPL or one of the orgs in your own town, or Kinky Friedman's favorite cause, Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch. I'm a huge fan of The Kinkster (yeah, I voted for him for gov of Texas), and here's one big reason I like him so much.

3. No matter how cute they look when they're begging, avoid feeding dogs and cats "people food" as much as possible. I have to take some responsibility for the fact that Noelle didn't live as long as she might have (smaller dogs can live to be twenty or even older, and Noelle was a couple of months shy of her fourteenth birthday). I can't say for sure, but I honestly think that if I had been more scrupulous about not "supplementing" her diet she might have been around a few years longer. Anyway, here's a good list of things not to feed your dog, and most of them apply to cats as well.

4. Bruce Fogle, whom I quoted above, had some good points regarding the succession of animals in one's life. But beyond the lessons and metaphors is the point that if you love animals, you should always have them in your life in any way you can manage. Two (or more) are almost always better than one, both for each other and for you. It really is a good idea to "stagger" them, though. I acquired several puppies and kittens at roughly the same time, which is why, years later, I had to say so many sad goodbyes in such a relatively short time. They all lived good long lives, but the cumulative loss has been very difficult to deal with.

By the way, here's one of the better pet loss support sites, in my opinion. Created by the prolific Moira Allen (who also has tons of great advice for writers), this site wasn't at the top of the Google search, but it offers compassionate advice and some links to other resources, without going to ridiculous extremes. Pet bereavement was once a taboo subject, and that wasn't healthy, but now, as with nearly everything else, the pendulum has swung in the other direction, and it has become an entire industry. Moreover, some of the web sites and online communities I've seen seem to encourage obsession with the loss, and that can't be healthy either. Still, the loss of a pet is nothing trivial. If you're having trouble dealing with it, help is available.

5. And the most important point of all: Love them unconditionally while they're with you, and let them know you love them every day. I guess it goes without saying that the same thing applies to the people in your life, too.
Okay, I think that's it for the "lessons." Again, I apologize for getting off-course here. I'll be back to being snarky in no time.

Let me hear your body talk

"Speak, Body, Speak!" commanded the large bold-faced headline in the email. Reading those words, I pricked up my ears, half expecting to hear my body, or someone else’s, say something. But not a word came from any body. The email, however, said plenty.

The person behind the email is Israeli native turned New Yorker Dr. Shoshana Margolin, MA, ND, PMD, CCN, CBN, NBC, CNN, CSPAN, NBD, PDQ, MILF, LMAO,* a naturopath and homeopath who has been in "holistic practice" since 1972. According to her web site, she "developed the epitome of Holism by interweaving Scientific Nutrition, Full-spectrum Homeopathy, Applied Kinesiology and Emotional Detoxification into a unique naturopathic tapestry." She has pioneered "numerous cutting-edge diagnostic and therapeutic modalities, among them Holistic Testing – which identifies the causative factors underlying any condition (physical or emotional) with great precision."

And, since "quantum" is a word that is charged with meaning in the New-Wage world, you probably won’t be too surprised to learn that Dr.Margolin is also the inventor of something called Quantum Therapy, which, according to her web site, is "the ultimate healing modality... light years ahead of anything else that’s available on the planet." Quantum Therapy "corrects…problems at their core level, through use of non-toxic, non-invasive natural modalities, which are in harmmony (sic) with the living body."

When asked by an interviewer for a weekly newspaper** how her approach differs from that of other holistic practices, Dr. Margolis answered, "Mainly in four aspects: completeness, precision, depth and results. Both testing and therapy are full-spectrum and multi-dimensional."

Dr. Margolin’s approach is based on what she calls Biological Communication, of which she says:

It is a two-way system: On the one hand, it prompts the body to reveal the underlying causes of pathology and dysfunction and to identify obstacles, blocks or barriers that may be interfering with the healing process. This is done through Holistic Testing. On the other hand, the body leads us to the selection of the precise natural, non-invasive and non-toxic healing modalities that it needs in order to create the profound changes that lead to health restoration - gently, quickly and completely. This is the Quantum Therapy part. I want to emphasize, that both aspects are non-medical.

Dr. Margolin is also a fairly prolific author, and has just come out with two books, Let The Body Speak and Let The Body Ask. Still to come: Let the Body Plead, Let the Body Discover, Let the Body Reveal, Let the Body Heal, Let the Body Win, Let the Body Rejoice and Let the Spirit Soar. She explains, "The term ‘Body’ as used in the Holistic realm is not restricted to the flesh-and-blood structure – but rather refers to the 'intangible' components of the Self (emotional, mental, spiritual and cellular memory)... an energy totality!" That’s a lot of territory.

And for those who are seeking out a life coach (which we were just talking about the other day), Dr. Margolin also happens to have a site that will help you find a coach and/or be a coach. So how do you know whether you are qualified to be one? I’m glad you asked. Dr. Margolin offers a simple checklist – and the good news for those of you considering a new career path is that it’s easier than you might have thought to be a coach:

Be A Coach

• Do you have vast experience or expertise in a particular field?
• Do you have skills that can be helpful to others?
• Do you often find yourself being asked for or giving advice?
• Do you enjoy sharing your knowledge with people?
• Did you gather valuable information for years – which can be shared with and save other people precious time, energy and costly mistakes?
• Are you able to inspire, motivate, encourage and uplift others?

If you answer "YES" to any of the above, you may qualify to be listed in our new Be A Coach index, where people will be able to find you by subject or area of expertise, by geographic location or by languages spoken.

Hmmm. The Rev and I have this 135-pound Doberman/Rottweiler/black Lab mix named Rex. I may have mentioned before that Rex is the most flatulent dog we have ever known, bar none. He would put poor Walter to shame. Rex is an absolute expert at passing wind, no matter what he has or hasn’t eaten. He definitely has vast experience in the field of farting. And to tell the truth, I think he actually enjoys sharing his expertise with us. I honestly believe that dog gets a sadistic pleasure out of seeing us run out of the room when he lets loose. And, yes, we are often "inspired" and "motivated" to uplift our butts and move them to another part of the house – or to banish Rex to the hinterlands of the hacienda – when he "shares." In addition, I think Rex’s talent goes beyond a mere bodily function; I do believe it is a skill that could be helpful to others, particularly those who find themselves cornered in a room full of Secret enthusiasts who are members of an affiliate program such as SGR. So…let’s see, that’s four out of six of the points above. That does it. I am going to sign Rex up as a Flatulence Coach.

How do you know if you need some coaching yourself? Here’s another handy checklist on Dr. Margolin’s site:

Find A Coach

• Do you ever feel that you need advice, support or additional information?
• Do you wish to be more successful, efficient and competent in your life?
• Do you want to improve relationships, family life, time management?
• Do you want to make more money, take your career to greater heights?
• Do you want to be motivated to exrcise (sic), slim down, change your diet or enhance your appearance?
• Do you want to expand your horizons - or be guided into greater spiritual awakening?
• Are you success-oriented? Do you care enough to be the very best that you can be?

If you answer "yes" to any of the above (and even if you don't...) – YOU NEED A COACH!

In other words, even if none of the above apply to you, you still need a coach.
So if you want to be holistically tested and quantumly therapized, and/or you’d like to be and/or hire a life coach, give Dr. Margolin a holler. Now if you’ll excuse me, my body is saying something to me. More specifically, my olfactory system is urgently whispering that we need to get out and get some fresh air. Yep, you guessed it: Rex’s body just "spoke" again. Pheeeewwww.

PS - Speaking of Walter, here is a gratuitous political cartoon. I wish I'd done it, but I can't take credit for it.

*Okay, not all of those credentials are real. I’ll leave it to you to determine which ones are and which ones aren’t. Go ahead, it will give you something to do. In all fairness, though, I will say that Dr. Margolin seems willing to give allopathic (traditional Western) medicine its due...sort of.
**Neither the interviewer nor the newspaper is named, but the interview appears on Dr. Margolin’s web site.

* * * * *

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Tapping into a new money stream

The mega-hit infomercial The Secret has apparently started a trend in MLPs (movie-like products). Some declare this trend to be part of the new genre called Spiritual Cinema. But I call it Hustledork Cinema. There are, of course, certain fundamental differences between Hustledork Cinema and traditional cinema, the main one being that the end product is not a feature film with a plot and character development and all of that stuff, but a glorified infomercial – a moviemercial, if you will. (Some Hustledork Moviemercials (e.g., What The Bleep?!?) do attempt to incorporate a rudimentary "plot" with ham acting, but the main point is the selling of the hustledorks and the upselling of their products.) And it generally doesn’t play at traditional movie venues, but is a straight-to-DVD product that costs considerably more than a movie ticket, even at today’s inflated prices.

It’s really not all that difficult to make a Hustledork Moviemercial. You simply take an idea or principle or technique – any idea or principle or technique, as long as it has to do with miracles and wonders and, of course, wealth beyond reason. Oh, and it should be based on an ancient secret, but with modern proprietary enhancements. Next you interview a passel of New-Wage hustledorks who have fake impressive credentials and are willing to enthusiastically endorse your idea. You either pay them up front or give them a cut of the action, directly or indirectly, and they’ll say anything you want them to say. They will earnestly describe, for example, how your idea or principle or technique can heal virtually every type of physical illness and emotional disorder, and make a person rich beyond his or her wildest dreams, and bring about world peace, and usher in a new era for humanity. Or they’ll tell moving stories about how they were once fat, homeless losers until they discovered your idea or principle or technique, put it to work in their lives, and became buff millionaires with a huge house (or several houses) and a stable of fancy cars.

Never mind that these same folks may have told the very same story, in a previous moviemercial, about how someone else’s idea or principle or technique was responsible for their astonishing success. The viewing public has a short memory.

Once you have your interviews, you edit out the boring parts, and then you string the interviews together with some breathy, sexy, or assertively sincere voice-overs. Throw in assorted whiz-bang special effects, and add some stirring, mystical-sounding music. And voila! – you got yourself your very own Hustledork Moviemercial. Pop a trailer on YouRube, spread the word virally, and you have an instant hit on your hands. Well, maybe. Tell everyone it’s a hit, anyway. (Note: You should also throw together a book that is based on your moviemercial.)

So what’s the difference between a moviemercial and a regular infomercial that anyone can watch for free on TV late at night? If you have to ask, you’re obviously not very enlightened. But...okay, since you ask, I'll tell you: Moviemercials have an uplifting message that mainly benefits the hustledorks who make them serves the higher good of humanity. And they cost $30.00, $40.00 or more. Sometimes much more.

While you’re planning your own overnight-hit product, I invite you to take a look at yet another new Hustledork Moviemercial, Try It On Everything,* which was brought to my attention the other day. This one is all about tapping, which is part of a subtle energy practice called Emotional Freedom Techniques, or EFT. EFT, which was "discovered" by a guy named Gary Craig, is based upon an ancient Chinese tradition that Gary’s EFT site says is over 5,000 years old, but which the Try It On Everything trailer says is over 8,000 years old. The tradition in question is acupuncture, which in its present form is really only a little over 2,000 years old. But what are a few millennia here and there? In any case, EFT is sort of like acupuncture without needles. But don’t confuse it with acupressure, where you just press or squeeze the points in question. With EFT, you tap those points.

And tapping apparently works on everything, as the trailer indicates. Anyone with working fingers and a body can do it, and, if you’re to believe this trailer, just about everyone is doing it. There’s even some brief but not-to-be-missed footage of a few SNAGs (Sensitive New Age Guys) engaging in a "circle tap."

Try It On Everything features an impressive range of New-Wage hustledorks, several of whom were in The Secret. My pal Chris Locke of the Mystic Bourgeoisie blog describes them as "a real rogue’s gallery of dangerous fools." I wouldn’t go so far as to call most of them dangerous (although some of their followers are pretty suspect), but then again, I’m more of a Pollyanna than Chris is.

And apparently I’m more of a Pollyanna than some of my other buds are. Another pal, after viewing the trailer, wrote, "Holy f - - - - - g s - - t! Don't they put autistic kids in football helmets for doing things like this??? Man, this gives a new meaning when you call someone a ‘slapper.’"

After a little back-and-forth about this, another person who was in on the discussion wrote, "You folks need to quit making fun of things you know nothing about! I've been rubbing ... er... tapping it for well over 40 years now, and it still works like a charm! Well... most of the time, anyway. Maybe it would be better if I rubbed ... er ... tapped it several times a day, like I did as a teenager! :-)."

Obviously, these guys can’t wrap their minds around the exciting potential of tapping. Maybe they need to listen to Bob Proctor, one of the top science experts of our time. Scientist Bob says, "The electrical system in a person’s body would make the electrical system in a supercomputer look like an absolute toy." He goes on to talk about how cool it is that we can snap our fingers or clap our hands to turn our lights on, but, even more amazing, "you can do that with yourself!"

EFT is the bastard child of Thought Field Therapy (TFT), which was invented in 1981 by Gary Craig’s mentor, cognitive psychologist Dr. Roger Callahan. TFT and Dr. Callahan are still going strong; in fact, Dr. Callahan teaches TFT at all levels, including the most advanced level, Voice Technology Training, or VTT. Learning VTT will only set you back one-hundred grand, USD. But it will, according to Dr. Callahan, help decrease human suffering, so I'm sure it's worth every dollar. These days EFT is a whole thriving industry as well, as indicated on this web site and on the links that appear on its right-hand side. But Gary Craig remains the undisputed king of EFT. He has a few medical professionals in his corner, and legions of ordinary folks as well.

And here is something that’s really cool: EFT works on animals as well as people. You don’t even have to tap on the animal; you just tap on yourself. It works even if the animal is nowhere near you – even if it is halfway across the world. Here’s what the Little Big Cat site says:

Using EFT on animals is easy!

Contrary to what you might think, we don't actually tap on the animal. While animals do have meridians and points, the best way to do EFT for animals is by surrogate or proxy tapping. This means you tap on yourself to make the changes happen. This has significant advantages:

• You can tap any time, anywhere - you don't have to be near the animal.
• You can tap often more than an animal might tolerate.
• You can tap for wild animals, animals that don't belong to you, and animals that you may not otherwise be able to touch, such as birds and fish.

And here’s how you do EFT on an animal:

A. Focus Your Intention
Think about the animal and what specifically you would like to release, relax, soothe or change.

B. Make a Statement of Intent
Find a phrase or a sentence that describes the problem succinctly and clearly to you. You can say, "Sidney has this terrible allergy." or "Sam never stops barking." or, "This brown horse is distressed." if you don't know the animals' name. This is the main part of directing your attention to the problem.

C. The Set-Up
We surround the statement of intent with the words, "Even though (Sam) (is hyperactive), I deeply and profoundly love and accept (Sam)." It helps bring you closer to the animal for deeper changes and handles permission issues as well as having positive benefits for YOUR system.

D. The Full Opening Set-Up
Place your flat hand on your chest, either left or right, just above your heart. Wait until you can feel the warmth of your hand through your clothes, rub the hand round in a small circle, and say the opening statement which is the statement of intent inside the blessing: “Even though (insert name or description)(insert statement of problem), I deeply and profoundly love and accept (name or description)”...

But wait, there’s still more. Tapping is not just for emotional issues or physical illnesses in people and animals. You can tap your way to wealth too! Ask Joe Vitale, one of the stars of Try It On Everything and The Secret. On a recent blog post he wrote, "Sometimes you can do EFT on a belief and it will vanish like the wind." Naturally, he provided a link to more information about EFT, and it just happened to be a page describing one of his products, a "9-Point Quantum Tapping System." This is an EFT-related marketing scheme Joe is involved in with an enthusiastic young hustler named Brad Yates.

Apparently Brad is Joe’s secret weapon for manifesting cars, or at least Brad helped him manifest one of his BMWs. For quite some time now, Joe has had a web site promoting his own program on how to attract a new car. On that site, there’s a picture of Joe and his love Nerissa in front of one of Joe’s BMWs. The caption reads, "Joe and his brand-new 2005 BMW 645ci – a $90,000 luxury sports car he attracted!" The site goes on to describe Joe’s foolproof system for attracting a new car or a bundle of cash, and all of this wisdom can be yours for only $97.

But wait, there's more! That very same picture appears on Joe and Brad’s "9-Point Quantum Tapping System" site, and the caption reads, "Joe and his brand-new 2005 BMW 645ci – a $90,000 luxury sports car he attracted after a teleseminar with Brad Yates!"

Now, I realize you may have thought the Law Of Attraction, as taught in The Secret, was Joe’s secret weapon for successful car-attracting. Or maybe you thought it was Ho’oponopono (or "Ho Aponno Ponno," as the Try It On Everything web site would have it), which is the ancient Hawai’ian system for wealth, health, and everything else. But apparently that’s not the case. It seems that tapping, as taught by Brad Yates, was the real secret key.

Joe did admit on his original "Attract A New Car" site that he attracted his new BMW after going through a teleseminar (though on that site, he doesn’t mention Brad’s name). Actually, it seems that he really didn’t need the teleseminar, because he already had the car-attraction thing nailed, but never mind that little detail.

I had already used my system to attract 5 Saturns and my first BMW (a beautiful James Bond-ish Z3 sports car, which I still love).

But I also went through the teleseminar like everyone else and ended up attracting a brand new 2005 BMW 645Ci – a luxury sports car worth $90,000!!!

And on top of that, the car was made for me in Germany.

That’s right. I ordered the car to be built to my specifications.

You have to remember that I was the guy who was homeless at one point, who lived in virtual poverty for years. Today I’m ordering one of the greatest auto manufacturers in the history of the world to build a car for me – a car worth more than many people’s homes!!!

And how did Joe do this? He explains:

Basically, the answer is in correctly using the 5 step system introduced in my book The Attractor Factor – the very book that knocked Harry Potter off the #1 bestseller spot – twice -- in April, 2005.

When you correctly use the 5 steps, and ignore the voice of doubt in your head, you can create miracles.

I know it seems impossible to believe, but it’s true.

But it now appears that it wasn’t Attractor Factor principles after all, but a Brad Yates teleseminar, that led Joe to attract that $90,000.00 BMW. At least I think that’s what Joe and Brad are saying. I get confused by all of the different versions of these success stories. Anyway, Joe and Brad are now pushing their "Home Tapping System," based on EFT, and that will only set you back $49. It will allow you to tap away your negative beliefs about money, which will open the way to unlimited wealth, at least for Joe and Brad. Here’s how the magic works:

Most of us use a "Default Operating System." It's the system our parents gave us. And it's the one their parents gave them.

Unfortunately, it's a lie. A faulty system. A glitch in the matrix. One based on illusion, passed down from generation to generation.

What no one told you is that any disruptions that we experience in life are simply disruptions in the energy field. And once you create your "Abundance Operating System"... your energy field becomes 100% "optimized" for attracting money beyond belief! You literally "flip a switch" that tunes into a "wealth frequency"... that just can't be stopped!

Naturally, this all has to do with quantum physics (well, doesn’t everything?):

You see, Quantum Physics tells us that everything in the universe is really just "pockets" of energy that flash on and off. What's more, all of these little packets are mere potentials.

And money is no different. It only exists as a potential form of energy. And if your beliefs don't allow that potential to occur...

Well, it doesn't matter how many self-help or success programs you try, because...

As long as your energy system blocks the potential to attract wealth... you'll never actually create it!

And it only takes five minutes and forty-nine seconds of effort per day to unblock your energy system and open the way to all of that wealth. There’s even a money-back guarantee if the 9-point Quantum Tapping System doesn’t utterly erase all of your negative beliefs about money.

As you might expect, the skeptics have weighed in on the TFT / EFT issue, tying to rain on the parades of the hopeful, as they always do. For example, Skepdic says this about EFT inventor Gary Craig:

It apparently did not occur to Gary that maybe he had tapped into the placebo effect or the power of suggestion. He may even be using cold reading techniques without being aware of it. Why accept simple psychological explanations when a complex mystical one is available?

Of course, the gimmick wouldn't be complete if Gary didn't remind us that he knows about ancient wisdom…

And the fuddy-duddies at Skeptical Inquirer put in their two-cents’ worth too:

Despite extraordinary claims to the contrary, TFT is not supported by scientific evidence… Many of the practices of TFT proponents are much more consistent with pseudoscience than science. Controlled studies evaluating the efficacy of TFT will be required for the treatment to be taken seriously by the scientific community.

Even a social-work journal piped in:

"Rituals have always been used to provide us comfort, and these manualized, ritualistic things fill a very interesting need," says [Richard Gist, PhD, of the University of Missouri-Kansas City]. "Market them, package them with a little bit of scientism, and they seem quite remarkable, especially to the desperate and gullible. It’s nice to be able to learn things with no more than a weekend of color slides and hyperbole, especially when it doesn’t even require you to take a test. They claim that TFT also works with cats and dogs." Pausing to reflect, Gist adds, "We seem to have a lot more interest these days in the package and less interest in the content…"

Well, I say fooey to all those naysayers. I’m going to go do a little EFT on Rex The Farting Dog, the 135-pound Rottweiler-Doberman-Black Lab mix who lives with Ron and me. I’ve focused my intention, have made a statement of intent, and am now preparing to set up: "Even though Rex farts, I deeply and profoundly love and accept Rex."

But just in case the tapping doesn’t work, y’all can do some Ho’oponopono cleaning on this problem too, now that you know about it. And with Rex being such a large dog, it is a huge problem – a mighty wind, as it were – so get busy, okay? If it works, we can make a moviemercial about it.

PS - In case you're not getting really good results with Ho'oponopono, you might try looking into Boto'o'popopopo, the ancient Hawai'ian secret that was taught to me by the great teacher Dr. Ihavascama Fer Yew.
* PPS added autumn 2009: Try It On Everything is now called The Tapping Solution, but it's pretty much the same tap-tap-tap crap...I mean, material. If you don't feel like buying the movie right now but need some comic relief...I mean, some tapping wisdom... here is a link that will take you to still more tapping videos from Master Tapper Brad Yates. Or, if you just don't even feel like watching the videos but want to know what they're about, check out this link for Cosmic Connie's Capsule Summary (third item down, "Tapping and yapping"). You're welcome!

Just call me Buttercup

You may have noticed that it has been a while since I’ve blogged – nearly one month (gasp). There are several reasons for this, all of them connected to various problems encountered in the nearly one month (are you starting to see a connection here?) since Ron and I moved out to The Edge of Nowhere.

For the first couple of weeks after the big transition I was flailing around in dial-up purgatory, not to mention carpal tunnel hell. Let’s cover purgatory first. Dial-up Internet out here in the sticks, or at least in our region of the sticks, is currently offered at a blazing 28.8-Kbps speed, turning even a simple email check into a chore (and possibly a hefty toll call as well; we have yet to receive our first phone bill but are dreading it).

And even after Ron and I finally got high-speed Internet – via satellite, as we don’t get DSL out here – my computer still wasn’t getting a proper signal. So if it seems that I’ve been ignoring your emails and comments, believe me, it isn’t from choice. I have been able to publish most of the comments to my blog, but haven't taken the time to respond to the comments because it was just too time-consuming on my crippled computer system, and it's much too awkward and inefficient for me to try to communicate via typing on my older model cell phone. I am trying to catch up now that Ron, after several shopping trips and countless hours of wrestling with the system, has apparently fixed the problem.

And here is where we get into the "hell" part. If you’ve ever had carpal tunnel syndrome you know what I'm talking about. All of the frantic packing and cleaning and box-lifting activities of the past few weeks have taken a toll on my hands. One morning a few days after the Big Move, I woke up in utter despair because my hands were so numb and yet so painful that I could hardly move them, to say nothing of type a brilliant blog post. In fact blogging was the last thing on my mind, what with there being a whole huge house full of stuff – literally hundreds of boxes – yet to be unpacked. "Without my hands, I’m useless!" I cried.

"Not to worry," Ron assured me. "Just point at boxes and I’ll unpack them and put the stuff away." I admit that the idea had a certain appeal to me, inspiring visions of Buttercup and Wesley in The Princess Bride. "Farm Boy*, unpack that small box over there and then arrange the contents neatly in my nightstand drawer!" I imagined myself haughtily saying. To which he would dutifully reply, "As you wish," and he would do it.

The reality, of course, is that Farm Boy had, and has, more than enough of his own stuff to do. His major task was setting our computers up so we could at least work. Work had to come first, and getting the Internet and network challenges taken care of became more than a full-time job for Ron. Gradually, however, we have been getting our household things unpacked and organized as well.

There have been a few other rough edges too, which are to be expected when moving into an old ranch house that has been vacant for a while. For example, the huge heating and cooling unit that was installed recently wasn’t working properly, and when a cold spell hit a couple of nights after we moved in, Farm Boy and I froze our assets. We called our property manager and he said he’d get his air conditioning guy right on it. The very next day, a friendly guy with a mullet and a very pronounced down-home accent showed up and clomped around up in our attic for a while.

"I bet there’s a lot of dust and Lord knows what else up there," I commented to him when he came back down.
"Nah, it’s not too bad," he said. "Saw a few snake skins, though."

I believe he thought he was shocking me, but as it turns out, I really like snakes, especially hog-nosed snakes, which I think are incredibly cute with those little turned-up noses.

"What kind of snakes do you suppose were up there?" I asked him, my interest piqued.

"Prob’ly copperheads," he replied. Um…copperheads I don’t like so much, a fact that my facial expression may have betrayed. "Aw, don’t worry," he assured me. "’Round these parts, they go up in people’s attics all the time, shed their skins, and leave."

Well, that made me feel loads better. And it’s nothing to worry about, really; for years I’ve suspected there are bats in my belfry, so snakes in my attic are no big deal. Anyway, Mullet Man said that the people who had installed the gigantic new heating and cooling unit had failed to install new ducts and vents and other stuff to make it all work right, so fixing it would be a rather involved process.

A few days later he showed up again with two assistants, and they all three clomped around up in the attic for several hours, putting new holes in our ceilings. They weren’t able to finish up that day and left several of the holes uncovered, including a big one in the kitchen, from which the return hung down like a giant prolapsed organ. That night Ron kept bumping his head on the prolapse, but at least the heat was working in part of the house. The next day the guys returned and finished the job, but, alas, that still didn’t do the trick. The heat still wasn’t working. We put in yet another call to our property manager, and then went to Home Depot and bought some small heaters.

After a couple more visits from our friend with the mullet, the problem was finally fixed, and everything seems to be working now. It’s very comforting to have the heat functioning again, now that the cold weather finally seems to be over.

We have had another issue regarding an intermittent but gawd-awful smell that seems to be emanating from the walls near the bathroom areas. This time we haven’t been able to blame Rex The Farting Dog, because for some inexplicable reason he isn’t farting nearly as much here as he did in Houston. But the refreshing lack of dog gas has been more than counteracted by the putrid odor coming from the walls. I was convinced that various creatures – Rodents Of Unusual Size, perhaps – had crawled into the walls and died. Ron, however, says it is more than likely a septic-tank issue, which we’re now dealing with. Just another challenge of Living In The Country.

The Country is, in fact, a very fragrant place. It often smells as if someone is smoking some extraordinarily good weed around here, especially at night. Actually, however, there are these creatures called skunks… and believe me, there are plenty of them in this area. Not that they really bother us; although the olfactory evidence is everywhere, the only visual evidence I’ve seen of their presence thus far are the poor little critters who never made it across the road. (Loudon Wainwright III might have found inspiration here.)

Things are slowly but surely returning to normal, or, more accurately, they are developing into a new normal. We have our high-speed Internet so we don’t have to go into town any more to upload huge graphics for our clients. Satellite Internet seems to be a little slower than DSL, and it sometimes goes out during a storm, but it’s the best we have right now. The important point is that we can work… and that I have most of my blogging capabilities back. Eventually all of the boxes will get unpacked, and as the weeks go by more things will fall into place. But I think it will be a while before I recover fully from this move.

I recall a moment on moving day, a day I will forever remember as Black Saturday. It was late morning, and Ron and the movers had left on the first of what would turn out to be four trips from Houston to The Edge of Nowhere. I was utterly exhausted and sleep-deprived to the point of nausea, and to make matters worse, one of the cats was hiding and I couldn’t find her. Earlier we had corralled all three of the Feline-Americans into the main bathroom to keep them out of the way of the moving activity. We shut them in there with food, fresh water, a newly cleaned litter box, and a couple of toys.

Already traumatized from having their environment turned into a shambles, the cats were now indignant about their imprisonment. They spent the entire morning complaining loudly. "Get a grip, felines," I grumbled. "You’re getting the easy end of this deal. I wish Ron would lock ME in the bathroom and make you guys help with this gawd-awful move." (Not that I had really been very much help at all on this move. During an actual move I am generally about as useful as tits on a fish. Put it this way: Farm Boy has been doing more than his share of work lately. But Princess Buttercup does have her uses when it comes to organizing before and after the move.)

Anyway, Grace, the long-haired white cat, had managed to escape from her bathroom prison cell and was now at large in the house. For over an hour I looked for her, and finally found her crouched in a dark corner under a couch. I noticed a sticker clinging to the tangled fur on her head, and upon closer examination saw that it was one of those decals made to be slapped onto boxes so movers will know how to mistreat them.** The sticker read, "FRAGILE."

"You don’t have to remind me, sweetheart," I told her, looking around for a similar sticker to slap onto my own head. Indeed, of the three cats it was Grace who has taken the longest to come out of her relocation funk. She hid behind a stack of boxes for a week and glared up at me whenever I peered down at her. But even she is coming around now. As for the dogs, they’ve had no trouble at all adjusting.

And despite the dial-up purgatory and carpal-tunnel hell, this place is, in many ways, heaven. Looking out of any of the numerous windows in this house, I never fail to be utterly delighted by the sights: the trees and the gently rolling land; the horses that I don’t have to care for – but get to pet and talk to – galloping across the fields; the cattle grazing in the distance. I walk out into our yard on a clear night and the sky is resplendent with far more stars than I could ever see in Houston. And I look around inside, at this roomy old house (finally! Room for my books! Or most of them, anyway!), and I have to smile.

And I love the way the wind howls around this house. It’s a wild, romantic sound that is frequently accompanied by the howls of the purebred foxhounds and Malamute-wolf hybrids in the kennels right behind our place. This would drive some people crazy, or in my case more crazy, but I have lived with wolves and wolf hybrids in the past, and to tell the truth I’ve kind of missed the howling. So I feel right at home, and confess that I have, on more than one occasion, joined in. My own dogs seem slightly embarrassed by this. In fact I believe they think I’m a bit off-balance, and they are very probably right. Off-balance I may be, but being out here is feeding a hunger I'd forgotten I had.

You may be relieved to know, however, that I am not going to bore you with corny homilies about the simple joys of a slower-paced life. The truth is, Ron and I are trying to create for ourselves the best of both worlds; like most people, we want to have our cake and eat it too. And Goddess knows there is no way either one of us wants to return to "the good old days" before the Internet. Internet entrepreneur Pat O’Bryan’s concept of a "Portable Empire" is a fine one, but it is, after all, dependent upon having the right technology. Besides, there’s a lot to be said for living in big cities with conveniences just around the corner.

Yet one day a couple of weeks ago, during one of several trips into Houston to take care of business, there was a moment when we were stalled in rush hour traffic and both found ourselves gazing in horrified awe at the flustercuck around and above us: seven layers of new freeway rising up into the sky like a tangle of snakes. I think I can safely speak for both Farm Boy and myself when I say that we will take the occasional serpent in our own country attic over that concrete snake pit any day.

And now I’m more than ready to return to snarky mode. Believe me, there’s plenty to snark about, not the least of which is the fact that tomorrow, March 19, is the official release date of the New-Wage moviemercial, The Opus – which looks to be yet another showcase for people with Egos Of Unusual Size.

* A particularly apt nickname, in light of our new surroundings.
** In this case, that was merely for humorous effect. Our movers were wonderful – three hard-working guys who went way above and beyond the call of duty to move our tons of stuff at a very reasonable price.

Faux-degree plans on hold?

I am in despair, Dear Ones. I was all set to go full speed ahead with my plans to obtain a few faux doctoral degrees, as I’ve discussed here previously. After reviewing numerous institutions of higher earning…I mean, learning, I had pretty much narrowed my search down to a couple of prestigious universities: Belford University and The University of Metaphysics. I was quite excited about these schools, as I noted in a recent blog post (second item). And I was saving up my hard-earned money to buy some impressive degrees.

But then – wouldn’t you know it! – some of our local CBS (Channel 11, KHOU) news guys went and rained on my parade. Those journalists! They’re always ruining things for the rest of us. The story that caught my eye last night on Channel 11 was one of those exposé-type pieces about phony degrees, reported by a young muckraker named Mark Greenblatt. It seems that some of our city and state officials in Texas, as well as a university professor or two, have been lured by the siren song of bought credentials, and some folks are pretty unhappy about it. Here's the online version of the story.

I learned from this story that the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board (THECB) maintains a list entitled, Institutions Whose Degrees are Illegal to Use in Texas. With my heart in my mouth – well, actually, it was still in my chest, but it was beating more rapidly than usual – I jumped onto the THECB page and, much to my dismay, saw several familiar names on this list.

For example, there’s Belford University, which has "locations" in Houston as well as in Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Here’s the scoop on Belford, according to the THECB: "No degree-granting authority from the CB & no accreditation from a CB [Coordinating Board] recognized accreditor. Under investigation by the AG [Attorney General] for operating from a mail forwarding service in Houston. Diplomas mailed from the UAE. Previously had a presence in NV or AZ."

Well, that still left The University of Metaphysics, I thought, hoping against hope. But my hopes were dashed when I saw that it, too, was on the THECB "illegal" list: "No accreditation from a CB recognized accreditor. AKA University of Sedona." [GOOD NEWS! See update at the end of this post. ~CC]***

Gosh darn it.

But really, what’s the big fat hairy deal, as Garfield the Cat might have said? So what if a phony degree is "illegal?" It’s not like rape or murder or robbery or fraud.

Well, okay, so maybe it is fraud, of a sort. And in the state of Texas, depending upon how one attempts to use that phony degree, it is a punishable offense:

The Texas Penal Code (Section 32.52) prohibits the use of fraudulent or substandard degrees "in a written or oral advertisement or other promotion of a business; or with the intent to: obtain employment; obtain a license or certificate to practice a trade, profession, or occupation; obtain a promotion, a compensation or other benefit, or an increase in compensation or other benefit, in employment or in the practice of a trade, profession, or occupation; obtain admission to an educational program in this state; or gain a position in government with authority over another person, regardless of whether the actor receives compensation for the position." Violation of this law is a Class B misdemeanor.

According to the Texas penal code (§ 12.22), a Class B misdemeanor is punishable by "(1) a fine not to exceed $2,000; (2) confinement in jail for a term not to exceed 180 days; or (3) both such fine and confinement."
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there are many money-making ops in jail – and especially after jail, particularly if you’re Paris Hilton (if you follow that link, scroll down to the third item). And heck, a $2,000.00 fine is nothing compared to the infinite amount of ready cash in the Universe.

Nevertheless I think I’ll pass.

I’m sure some of you are still saying, "Oh, Cosmic Connie, so what? Give it a rest already! This is much ado about nothing. After all, accreditation is an arbitrary tool of the establishment, and it’s no reflection on real merit."
Hmmm.

You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t be so squeamish. After all, I’m not planning on running for public office, where every detail of one’s past, present and future is scrutinized. I’m shooting for the non-thinking public, people who are so gullible and worshipful that they never bother to question credentials. If a phony doctorate can work so well for so many New-Wage gurus, why can’t it work for an intrepid blogger?

Plus, as I’ve noted before, why earn your degree the hard way, if you can buy it the easy way?

Thank you for letting me get this off my chest, Dear Ones. I feel better already. And as an added bonus, I’ve just discovered another really good university which seems legit, because they have stringent admissions standards. I’m hoping they have a good doctoral program.

PS - Phony degrees are not just a Texas thing, of course, and not just a US phenomenon. Take a look at the articles and links on the Diploma Mill News blog.

(My recently expressed idea about getting a doctorate for Rex The Farting Dog was not that far-fetched; here's a link to an article about a kitty cat who got an MBA.)

And here's another interesting and informative site about the law (state, US, and international) and phony degrees.

PPS - Type "phony degrees" into Google and you get some very interesting "sponsored-link" results. This is the one case in which those scam schools who sell these phony degrees are actually being honest about their phoniness, but they're not going to pass up a selling op. Is this the ultimate in cynicism, or just great marketing – or both?

*** UPDATE added on 8 May, 2009: A commenter going by the moniker I.A.T.H. pointed out to me that the University of Metaphysics/University of Sedona are no longer on the Texas Higher Education Coordinating Board (THECB) "Illegal" list. According to this person, the institutions were mistakenly placed there and have since been removed (you can read this person's full comment by clicking here). I have sent an email to the THECB web site asking for more details. My guess is that since U of Metaphysics/Sedona go to some pains to define themselves as "non-secular," they are outside the jurisdiction of the THECB. In any case, I wanted to be fair and inform you, as my commenter suggested I do, that these institutions are no longer on the Texas s--t list.

Do you realize what this means, Dear Ones? Not only does it mean that a certain person I've snarked about here has only one fraudulent doctorate (legally speaking) instead of two, but it also means that maybe I really can realize my dream of getting a flaky degree without running afoul of the law. Who said the Universe wasn't on my side?

* * * * *

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